


Night in the Windows

by Loracine



Series: Debts and Desperation [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, case!fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:43:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4455287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loracine/pseuds/Loracine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A twig snapped in the distance and she heard it before she saw it, the steady sound of a set of big paws. The Parker's dogs started barking frantically and others in hearing range took up the call. The night was soon filled with canine calls and the yelling of people who would very much like to get back to bed. Off to the east her own hound began baying. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.</p><p>Crossposting with original images on my Livejournal <a href="http://loracine.livejournal.com/17003.html">HERE</a>!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I am renovating this fic. The original 7 chapters have been condensed into 3, edited, added onto, and in some parts completely rewritten. Updating will be slow and sporadic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A twig snapped in the distance and she heard it before she saw it, the steady sound of a set of big paws. The Parker's dogs started barking frantically and others in hearing range took up the call. The night was soon filled with canine calls and the yelling of people who would very much like to get back to bed. Off to the east her own hound began baying. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
> 
> WARNING: minor character death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this chapter is from a writing project I participated in several years ago. Three times a week I would take the first sentence of the first page of a novel and write a drabble with it. This first sentence is from Piers Anthony's novel "On a Pale Horse." The quote at the beginning is a piece of the lyrics for "Mint" by Zeromancer and the quote in the middle is from "Oh Death" by Jen Titus.

_The sun, the sea, the sky_  
_The loneliness, the why_  
_The fear of losing everything_  
_In a goodbye_  
_The colors in the air_  
_The hollowness, a tear_  
_The depth of your mistakes_  
_Are drawing near_

"Death," the proprietor said clearly, showing the stone. It was a smokey gray when the light shown through it and shaped like a smooth rounded pebble, an Apache Tear, "That is what hunts you."

She took the stone gingerly, holding it with thumb and forefinger as if it was contagious. The proprietor was a vudon priest, or at least claimed to be, and his place of business had all the trappings. She had been a little nervous following advice to consult the man and she had so far seen nothing to convince her otherwise. Never mind the fact that the stone she was currently holding had been cut from the eye of a ginormous toad. It still had slimy bits attached to it.

The proprietor nodded to the stone and produced a small leather pouch with a long thong, obviously intended to be drawn tight and worn about the neck, "I have added a few other crucial ingredients as well, but the stone must be placed in the pouch."

She took the bag gratefully and dropped the icky thing inside, then moved to stuff the whole thing into her pocket.

"It must be worn," he paused, "around the neck."

She grimaced but did as she was told. This had better be worth it.

~@~

_But what is this, that I can’t see_  
_with ice cold hands taking hold of me_

The beam of the flashlight swept over the underbrush as her feet followed the thin dirt path. Allie tugged the wool down over her forehead and yelled, "C'mon Remy, I don't got all night!" She had been wandering around in the dark for nearly an hour now and her mood had gone from worried to seriously pissed off back to worried again. It wasn't like the kid to disappear.

The crickets decided that moment was the perfect time to make noise, possibly drowning out any response.

The girl considered turning around and going home. The babies needed tending and mama was having one of her bad days. She really shouldn't be leaving them alone this long. She had a good idea where her moron of a brother had gone, though, and set her feet to the path. "Get your ass over here," she tried again and huffed when she got no response. The kid wasn't going to be able to sit for a week when she got hold of him. Him and his two friends if they weren't fast enough. She needed to actually graduate high school if she had any hope of joining the army. They wouldn't survive much longer without that paycheck.

A twig snapped in the distance and she heard it before she saw it, the steady sound of a set of big paws. The Parker's dogs started barking frantically and others in hearing range took up the call. The night was soon filled with canine calls and the yelling of people who would very much like to get back to bed. Off to the east her own hound began baying. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

There was a scream and her brother came sprinting out of the darkness. Her heart jumped into her throat.

"Remy, where the hell," her voice died out as he passed right through her and evaporated. Her hands began shaking and she crossed herself. A low snarl, wet and deep, vibrated the air. She backed up on shaky legs. The sound of paws on dry earth got closer. Allie clutched the pendant around her neck and started running. Almost silently, she prayed, "Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do Th"

She only got halfway through the incantation before a heavy weight landed on her back. Her screams drowned out the barking of the dogs and only stopped long after her blood was dripping in thick rivulets from the foliage overhead. Dull eyes fixed unseeing onto the distance. Something big clamped its jaws on her ankle and dragged her corpse into the darkness.

~@~

Two weeks later...

"Why is a nature photographer interested in an isolated bear attack," the coroner asked. His nametag read Alan Bowen. A simple and uninteresting name for a repugnant man. Outwardly there was nothing remarkable about him. He wasn't slovenly, obese, disfigured, or just plain ugly in any way. His lab coat was relatively clean and his beard was trimmed.

Jill, however, couldn't shake the feeling of ick she felt by just being in the room with him. It wasn't a supernatural ick, but more of a woman's intuition. "You have three bodies in six weeks, Mr. Bowen. I wouldn't call this isolated," she pointed out.

He shrugged. "All I can tell you is the wounds were too big to be anything but a bear and the hunting party killed it two days ago," he said. His eyes fastened just south of her collarbone and he licked his lips. Oh, that's why. Jill was suddenly very glad she had worn a 'frumpy mom shirt', as Kenny, her teenaged son, called it.

"The magazine hired me to do a piece on the river basin's hiking trails. If I am going to be wandering around in the woods I want to be sure it is safe," she explained. It was the best cover story she could come up with on such short notice, a freelance photographer and her son in town to take scenic pictures for an obscure nature tourism magazine. Powell had called her in a panic yesterday with this one and all of her fed badges had gone up in flames on the last job. Most likely it was just a bear or feral dog, a perfect training run for Kenny. Since it had popped up on a hunter's radar it couldn't just be ignored.

He nodded. "Well, that's the best I can do for you. If you are still concerned you might want to talk to Rubes, umm Sheriff Videon. He might be able to arrange a guide. This time of year is pretty quiet, normally. Plenty of men will be happy for a day or two of honest work. 

She didn't get anything further out of the slimy man and even had to find a way to gracefully and thoroughly turn down his repeated attempts to ask her out on a date. She'd have to put the local bar on her no-fly list until they got out of the tiny podunk puddle of a town.

A quick visit to the Sheriff yielded not much more. Large paw prints were seen both where the body was found and where they think she was killed. He even walked her over to the local taxidermist to show off the brown bear the hunting party had killed. She hadn't been convinced. Only her superb acting skills, or maybe her perky assets, kept him from thinking too hard when she declined his offer of a guide. 

Later that night she broke into the coroner's office and took a look at the body herself. The bite pattern was inconclusive but the claw marks told a different story. She took a quick sketch of the clearest set on the half decomposed body. Kenny was the one that concluded it had to be a black dog. Werewolves weren't canine enough and bears simply didn't match the claw pattern his mother had found. They loaded up on silver, iron, salt, and even holy water.

The next night the two of them left for the woods bristling with weapons.

~@~

Another shitty motel room, another tiny podunk town, another job well done.

Light was streaming in through the windows with a vengeance and Dean growled in irritation at the assault on his retinas not only from the bright yellow burning ball of gas in the sky but also from the sixties era decor he hadn't noticed in his exhausted state last night. He would have been content without seeing the bright yellow daisies and psychedelic splashes of color the sun was cheerfully illuminating first thing in the morning. Closing his eyes and wishing it away wouldn't do any good, though. He had set the alarm for a reason, even though it was taking a moment to remember why. His mood was only mildly improved by the steaming cup of coffee waiting within reach on the bedside table. He narrowed his eyes at clock next to the styrofoam cup, figuring he'd gotten about five hours sleep as he downed half the brew in one massive and desperate gulp. Last night's salt and burn had gone smoothly. Dean had only been tossed into a tombstone, wall, or random tree a handful of times and Sam hadn't even needed to use his expert stitching skills afterward.

Speaking of which, Dean sat up and looked around for his giant little brother and found he was being ignored from a seat at the rickety motel table. The sasquatch had set down his own coffee and seemed to be absorbed in a phone call, his long limbs stretched out in front of him. He had been positive when the kid left for Stanford that Sam couldn't possibly get any taller. Sure, he'd been a gangly little fucker and it was nice to see some muscle on those long bones, but he hadn't expected to fit so neatly beneath his little brother's chin. Dean was not a short man and sometimes Sammy made him feel tiny. It was disconcerting. They were still getting used to traveling together again and so much had changed, for both of them. There were some nights Sam's nightmares about Jess set off his own long buried memories of Mom, when his four year old eyes had gotten one fleeting glimpse of her corpse burning on Sammy's nursery ceiling. It had taken him six months to start talking after the fire the first time. Compounding those issues were the barely there alterations in their dynamic. Sam had come into his own, for the most part. He was older, and more importantly he had matured. Their father's stubborness had a habit of blazing through those hazel eyes, a fierce desire for independence even as he clutched onto Dean like a liferaft. That much hadn't changed. Sammy had been a difficult teenager, putting it mildly. There were days he wished really hard for a return of the terrible twos. At least then he could have scooped the asshat into his arms and carried him back to the motel room to sit in a corner and cool off.

Dean hadn't escaped the march of time either. He still had that big brother drive to keep the kid safe, but his time hunting alone had altered his habits. He was less and less able to return to his previous role of brother/father/mother, though he was trying. The mantle didn't sit as easily on him any longer. To make things worse, Dean worried that one day he would wake up and find himself alone, without warning or explanation. Winchesters didn't seem to be big on goodbyes, seeming instead to disappear into the background and then ditch the phones. Okay, maybe that last bit wasn't completely true. The two of them had left him high and dry, but neither man had ditched their phones. Not responding was technically not the same thing. He'd felt like a piece of discarded trash afterward and even once their father had returned from his month-long sulk it had taken awhile for Dean to start talking again.

He scratched absently at the stubble on his cheek and glowered once more, for good measure, at the partially open curtains, right next to Sam. There was no possible way geek-boy hadn't noticed the bright shaft of light aimed at the spot Dean's head had previously occupied. Of course, if he opened his mouth now he was bound to say something stupid. For once Dean used his better judgement, choosing to chug the remainder of the hot coffee that had lured him from sleep. He caught the words 'dead' and 'strange' from this side of Sam's conversation and that was as much as he needed to know at this point. Sam would fill him in soon enough.

Dean had made it as far as the table by the time the call ended, his muscles speaking their usual complaints regarding the regular abuse he put them through. Sam looked up at him, grunted, and dropped a paper bag on the table. Dean was a simple man. Coffee, greasy breakfast food, and the promise of a new hunt was all he needed. The scowl vanished from his face in the time it took to get his teeth into breakfast. A good portion of the sandwich was already in his mouth when Sam decided to start a conversation. "I got us a case," he began and then blurted out, "Gross, dude."

Dean looked over, his mouth a bit stuffed with greasy fast food heaven, and smiled. He let his cheeks bulge out a little and Sam made a disgusted face. He did have enough common decency, though, to swallow before speaking. "We got a casper," he asked. The look on his face suggested he was hoping for a no. Those were a bit on the 'same-old same-old' spectrum of this life.

"That was Tappy. He hasn't heard from this guy named Powell in a few days," Sam explained.

"Did old Tappy know what he was hunting?" Dave Tepper was a frail old man better suited to librarian than hunter. Dean didn't know exactly how he had gotten mixed up in the life, only that he no longer took jobs himself. Dad had sought information from the guy before Sam had grown up enough to start asking questions, so Dean's own memories weren't the sharpest on the matter either. Dad must have done something, though, because this was the first they'd heard from him since.

Sam shook his head. "Just that something big and four-footed is killing people in Blourwich. Powell thought it was local wildlife and sent in another new hunter and her son. When they stopped answering the phone he told Tappy to call in reinforcements if the same thing happened to him."

"Lemme guess. Dead," Dean surmised.

"Yep," the 'p' popped and Sam started typing on his computer. "His daily updates stopped two days ago."

"So not the local wildlife," he surmised.

Sam rolled his eyes as if to say 'obviously'. "The town is so small their local newspaper is more like a newsletter, and it's not online," he said. He took another swig of his diner coffee and closed the laptop.

Dean stood, pulled off his shirt, and made for the bathroom. "Just don't make me party to your library kink, geek-boy," he called out as he closed the door behind him.

Sam waited for it, patiently. The startled yelp from behind the closed door was very gratifying. He covered his mouth and tried very hard to look innocent as a very wet, very naked, very upset Dean yanked open the bathroom door and yelled, "Sam!"

The smirk behind his hand turned into a full, doubled-over and clutching his sides fit of laughter.

Dean's hair was thick with bright green shampoo foam dripping down his face and onto the floor. He hid his grin with a scowl, covered the important bits of his anatomy with his hands, and grumbled, "Laugh it up, fuzzball." Sam did not need to know how good it was to hear the kid laugh, especially when that pure sound had finally reappeared at Dean's expense. He exaggerated his irritation, grumbling loudly about little brothers through all three rounds of Sam's expensive shampoo, cultivating some of those sibling feel-goods he would never admit to.

It was on.

~@~

People in Blourwich had stopped leaving their homes at night. Doors were closed and locks engaged as the last rays of the setting sun died out. Another body had been found. The news had spread like wildflower all over town in the time it had taken for the Sheriff to drive from his mid-morning coffee to the trailhead. It spread so quickly that the Crandal kid had called the station before the Sheriff had even had a chance remember that he'd need a small 4x4 to navigate the seldom-used trail closest to the site. The Sheriff waved in greeting as he stepped out of his aging truck.

The scruffy looking owner of the mule touched the brim on his hat, "Rubes." The mule was the only vehicle narrow enough for the trail with a cargo bed in the back that this town had.

Sheriff Videon chuckled. "How's your old man," he asked as he climbed into the passenger seat.

"Marinating," he replied. The boy was the town stereotypical redneck, a bit out of place in these parts. His unique style was accepted with a sort of puzzled fondness. He also had a keen eye, a quick mind, and enough business sense to make up for his father's failings. In a town of barely five hundred people his jack-of-all-trades approach was serving him well.

The drive in was bumpy, slow, and tedious. The view when they arrived, though, was gruesome. "Looks like it's been a few days," the Sheriff remarked.

The boy grunted. He'd seen the last four bodies they had found out here. All in different spots, but every last one in a similar condition. "Think we got two killer bears on our hands," he asked with barely concealed sarcasm. He had been one of the few dissenting voices to their man-eating bear theory. 

The Sheriff grimaced, knowing there had to be some other explanation. They'd probably killed a perfectly peaceful bear for no reason. He hated doing that. "Yeah, probably right," he admitted. He squatted down and carefully removed a wallet from the back pocket. "Aww hell, it's that fish and game yahoo," he lamented and held the ID up for inspection.

Together the two of them photographed, tagged, bagged, and documented every bit of evidence they could find. Both their stomachs were complaining about missed meals before they managed to wrestle the now occupied bodybag into the short bed of the mule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I have completely changed the tone of this fic and it does not match Body of Man. As of right now I have no intention of adding sex scenes, but I'm not ruling it out.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean dutifully looked inside when the man unzipped the black bodybag. The body was in bad condition and looked to have been chewed on by various small animals in addition to the the several days of decomposition and the large wounds which had most likely killed him. One arm wasn't even attached anymore. In all, it appeared to be a vicious large animal attack with smaller animal post-mortem predation. He'd learned that word from CSI, he thought proudly.
> 
> WARNING: minor character death off camera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote at the beginning is from the lyrics for "Dancing Days" by Led Zeppelin.

_Dancing days are here again as the summer evening grows_  
_You are my flower, you are my power_  
_You are my woman who knows_

By now Rhea could have had just about anything she wanted. If she had just kept her eyes closed, her mouth shut, her curiosity reigned in. She hadn't and now she was slowly paying the price. Curiosity had driven her into that shop, down this little road. It was driving her to her grave and she couldn't help but wonder exactly how much her uncle had known before he had died. Did he have an inkling of just who he had been working for?

Once again she was on the run, eating up miles beneath her tires. This time there was no plan, no magic ring to make things possible. Athrai was in the bottomless bag she had been forced to leave behind, along with her new identity and extra cash. It had all gone to hell faster than she had expected.

She heard the bone chilling laugh of a hyena, clear even over the roar of the engine. She knew it was all in her head. They were tracking her. Following the scent of her soul, again. Only this time it was the real thing, not some two-bit witch with a spell. She pushed the accelerator to the floor and the car leapt beneath her. She had to make it to the woods before sunrise.

The first rays of the sun appeared over the horizon, filtering through the sky in brilliant shards. She slammed on the brakes, her heart pumping in her chest. She hadn't made it. The prism on the dash cracked and shattered. The bag around her neck thrummed with the power coming from outside. The hyenas circled the car, their pony sized bodies slapping at the metal body and making it shake with their bulk. Her phone rang.

Rhea's shaking hands answered the call, though her voice was unable to speak past her fear.

"Open the window," Boss ordered. His voice was smooth, almost soothing. He could talk you to your death with a smile on your face. She'd watched him do it.

She shuddered, eyeing the carnivores outside, but complied. They had her. The window would do nothing protect her. A large stinking head reached in just long enough to deposit something hard and slimy in her lap.

"I find I am in need of some reassurance, Ms. Dubhach. Your loyalty has come into question. You have three days, my dear. Don't disappoint," he advised before hanging up.

She stared forlornly at the glittering crystal shards littering the dash. She had been so close. "I am so fucked," she mumbled. Her forehead hit the wheel dejectedly. There was a dried human tongue in her lap covered in mutant hyena slobber.

A warning.

She had to finish her last assignment. Question was, could she?

~@~

"How's our latest miracle," the attending asked as he brushed past the nurse. It wasn't a useless question, but the nurse knew his input was less interesting than the vital signs and brief physical examination the resident used only a few moments to perform. Over the last few months they had estabished a routine of sorts and the two of them worked well together. The same could not be said of all the residents currently populating this ward.

"Brain activity hasn't changed. Nothing remarkable from last night's shift," he replied knowing the doctor would appreciate the bare essentials. The adolescent on the bed was still an unknown. They had a name from the motel registry and that was it.

"Good news is his pupils are reactive to light bilaterally," the resident remarked. It was a very good sign. The pressure in the boy's skull had quite possibly been reduced just in time.

One fifteen year old boy with enough stitches in his skin to sew a couple suits, basilar skull fracture with CSF rhinorrhea, temporal skull fracture with epidural hematoma, and other assorted insults. Oh, and a dead Mom. Her body was in the morgue downstairs. It was a laundry list of trauma and there was no known next of kin. The kid would be lucky to wake up, but he wasn't going to be waking up to anything good. "I want to keep him in this coma for another day or so and then we'll wean him off the meds and see if he wakes up," he finally decided.

The nurse lightly patted the back of the hand on his less injured arm and said softly, "You just concentrate on getting better, kid. We've gotch'ya."

~@~

Blourwich was a tiny little town nestled in the foothills. It had one gas station, one stop sign, two churches, and what looked like a respectable grocery store for the area. There wasn't much else. Dean grumbled about suspension and road dirt as they bumped along the crumbling asphalt surface of the main road. Sam muttered something not fit for pleasant company when he noticed his cellphone only had one bar and demanded that if he wasn't going to have cell service there damn well better be internet. Dean smiled at that. Looks like geekboy was going to be roughing it right along with him, because he doubted a place like this would have a decent burger joint.

The only room for rent in the area was a quaint little bed and breakfast, and the owner had a doily fetish. They covered nearly every small surface in the lobby. Dean initially recoiled, but at Sam's reminder that this was the only lodging they could find. He could do this. Painful, but sufferable. Neither had thought it could get any worse until he opened the door and saw pepto bismol. The walls were pepto pink, just slathered all over. There was even lace lining the shelves and the top of the TV. Sam had talked him out of getting a other room, or trashing the freaky plastic doily things. They were both beat. To make matters worse, he didn't even notice he had collapsed onto the only king bed in the room until Sam laid down next to him, and, gee, there was only one bed. They both had a few new bruises from that revelation.

The next morning found Dean surprisingly cheerful and Sam nursing a bad mood. The one saving grace of the place was the chef, the owner's oldest son. He'd spent a few years in New York working as a line cook to pay the bills. Dean would have been happy with just about anything, but Sam's sour countenance hadn't lasted longer than it took for Sam to devour his first bite of the spinach and feta cheese omelet he ordered from the kitchen downstairs. His little brother's rabbit food fetish had been appeased, and thus he was sufficiently distracted. Kid was easy to keep happy sometimes. It reminded him of that Etch-A-Sketch when he was twelve and Sammy was eight. Dad had come out of the thrift store with a paper bag for each them. Usually the bags only held clothes, boring. That time they each had a toy and Sammy had shut his mouth for an entire four hours playing with that thing. Dad could not have spent that one dollar any better. Dean still hadn't beat that record. It seemed an omelet was a worthy contender, though.

After a quick conversation with the owner, the brothers decided their first stops should be the morgue and the library. Sam considered rock, paper, scissors, but considering Dean's track record he knew he should just pick one and get on with it. He opened his mouth… and Dean steamrolled right over him.

"So, geekboy, you want to hit the library while I go look at dead bodies," Dean asked. Well, asked wouldn't be the word but it sure sounded like it when he had said it.

Sam didn't complain for once. He knew it was useless. Asking Dean to do the research was like expecting a hyperactive squirrel on crack to stop jumping around for one fucking second. It just wouldn't turn out well.

The library was like most municipal buildings in this tiny town, a converted home. Sam quickly discovered that he was looking for what had once been the master bedroom. The librarian, a quirky girl who couldn't be far out of her teens, had explained the ground rules. It was pretty standard fare and mostly about keeping the archives safe for future generations. Every issue of the local newspaper since 1897 had been sorted into boxes by year and stacked on the floor. She threatened him with bodily harm if he got even one issue out of order. There was no table or even a decent chair in the room she directed him to. Instead, he was forced to fold his long limbs onto the floor and drag the boxes over to himself one at a time. When a chair finally did arrive he had already made himself relatively comfortable and didn't want to mess with the system he set up. He used it as a makeshift table instead.

In order to make things easier he decided to start with the most recent and work backwards. He didn't want to dig for the dusty ones first if he didn't have to. One pleasant discovery he made was the fact that until last year, when the paper had been expanded to two pages, the local newspaper was more of a newsletter and had fit neatly onto a single double-sided piece of paper. It got even better when he noticed there were only two printed a week, the Wednesday edition and the Sunday edition. He was only halfway through his first cup of coffee when he picked up his first paper from 1990. At this rate he would be well on his way to finished by the time Dean called to pick him up.

At the morgue, Dean was fighting not to pull at the itchy collar around his neck. He was tempted to call up the feds and demand their regular field agents wear khakis and polo shirts like the detectives in Alachua County. That had looked comfortable. At least, it looked more comfortable than this stuff multi-layered monkey suit he was buttoned in to now. He'd put up with the California reject comments just for the ability to breath without feeling like a noose was wrapped around your neck. Oh right, it felt like that 'cause there was. Damned tie. He smoothed his fingers down the polyester torture device and tried to make it appear like he was listening to the medical examiner.

"You are lucky, Agent Coverdale. This one was scheduled to go out today. We just don't have the equipment anymore to house cadavers," the town's medical examiner was saying as he pulled the metal table from a walk-in freezer, the kind used by most restaurants.

Dean dutifully looked inside when the man unzipped the black bodybag. The body was in bad condition and looked to have been chewed on by various small animals in addition to the the several days of decomposition and the large wounds which had most likely killed him. One arm wasn't even attached anymore. In all, it appeared to be a vicious large animal attack with smaller animal post-mortem predation. He'd learned that word from CSI, he thought proudly.

"I don't know what a Federal Marshal was doing investigating a string of bear attacks, but I'm sure you aren't about to tell me," he inquired hopefully.

Dean shook his head, acting regretful, "No, sorry. They didn't tell me why he got interested in this case. You know how it is. One hand." He held up his left hand and wriggled the fingers, expecting sudden comprehension and a laugh. Which didn't happen. "Doesn't know what the other hand is up to," he finished, but it ended with a slight uptilt in pitch so that it sounded like he was asking a question, or just not sure he got the saying correct.

Mr. Bowden stared at him, perplexed or maybe just not amused. Hard to tell.

Dean coughed. "Right. Well, I'll need a few minutes with the body," he said to break the awkward silence. "Is that all of Agent Waters' personal effects," he asked and pointed to the small shoe box at one end of the table.

The guy just blinked and then seemed to come back to life. "That's everything that came with him. I need to get back to work anyways," he said and walked over to the desk at the other end of the small room. He even sat down facing them. He waved a pen in Dean's general direction, "Carry on. I'll do my best to stay out of your way."

It was difficult to test for the usual things with Mr. Bowen breathing down his neck, but he managed. No sulfur. No weird goo. No animal hairs from anything larger than a rodent. Nothing to indicate that Powell had even been attacked at all other than the gaping wounds in his torso.

The librarian shoved a sandwich under Sam's nose around noon with stern orders to eat and he detected a hint of motherly concern in her tone. Some women were just born for it. Later, a text message on his phone told him that Dean had interviewed the town sheriff on the recent string of deaths and was now in the middle of combing through recent reports. Normally his brother waited for at least the preliminary research to be completed, but lately he seemed more impatient or at least more active than usual. He wondered just how closely his brother was keeping tabs on him. The thought gave him a sort of warm feeling. When he got through the 1960s Sam had to admit there didn't seem to have been any previous deaths that even remotely fit the pattern, but he skimmed well into the 1920s to be sure. When he finally looked down at his notes he had listed five bodies in about six weeks. Wait. Five bodies. Three locals. Powell. That new hunter and her son. The son. He would have made six bodies. He was positive the fourth body had been an adult female. Sam nearly brained himself on the window unit when he shot to his feet.

He dialed Dean's number without having to look.

"Yeah," Dean grunted on the other end.

"Where's the kid," he blurted out.

"Sammy, you ok man? I'm pretty sure its just you and me on this one," Dean said jokingly.

Sam shook his head. "No, the novice hunter's son. What's her name? She had a teenaged son with her. Five bodies, Dean. He would have made six. So, where is he? If he's still alive he might have seen something."

"Shit. You're right. I've got the sheriff's number. I'll ask him. Did you find anything else?"

"No. There's no pattern that I can find. These deaths are completely new and the only similarities between the three locals that have died seem to be wrong place, wrong time," Sam explained. He bent down to repack the latest box he had disassembled while pinching the cell between his ear and his shoulder. "You?"

"Big ass claws and the bites look canine. Nothing else. No sulfur, weird residue, or even hair. The full moon is in a week, so no dice there. One interesting factoid, the civies are complaining of a loud dog they want the Sheriff to take care of, but no one seems to know who it belongs to. A lot of loud growling and snarling at night that started about two months ago."

"So, black dog?"

"Sounds like it. Powell, though. He was seasoned, a hunter, what, eight years. You don't get taken down by a black dog with eight years experience under your belt," Dean said. Black dogs were not clever like a wendigo or super strong like, well, anything else they hunted. They were basically pissed off dead dogs. Tricky and a little complicated, but nothing Dean couldn't have handled solo. He'd done it before. He sighed. "Something just doesn't feel right."

"Dean, hunters die every day. He could have just gotten unlucky," Sam pointed out.

"So, you done with your geekathon, Sammy" Dean asked. He never liked to dwell on a hunter's death. It hit a little too close to home.

Sam had expected the abrupt change in subject. He wondered how Dean could consider what he'd just done even remotely fun. The intricacies of his brother's mind were just as much a mystery now as they had been when they were kids. "For now. I'll start looking at the surrounding properties," he promised. "The paper was a little vague about exact location. Did they all die in the same general area?"

"Their bodies were all found within a one mile radius. A dumping ground. They died elsewhere," he confirmed. He rattled off a GPS location by rote. The area was pretty remote. Of course, the town itself was pretty remote. "You might want to look into an old home near there, called April house. An old widow named April Millherst was the last to live there."

Sam thought he had seen something like that around here somewhere. "I'll have something by the time you pick me up," he said and started riffling through papers, almost forgetting to hang up the phone.

Dean showed up just before two to haul him out of the library, grumbling about little brothers forgetting to eat after hearing a cute story of the sandwiches from the librarian. She had taken one look at Sam's way too pretty for his own good big brother and gotten weak at the knees. He had actually seen her knees take a little dip when the man walked into the room. Sam tried not to roll his eyes, and probably failed. One day his brother's womanizing ways was going to get them both in trouble, again. Dean hadn't exactly been discrete as a teenager and he really didn't want to have to deal with the fallout. Not when the jilted boyfriends were even more likely to be carrying loaded firearms.

He just barely got them out the door before something embarrassing happened. Thankfully, Dean didn't seem to give a damn. "The April house burned down a few years ago. Lightning strike," Dean remarked instead as they drove away.

That hadn't been in the papers. "Well, get this. There are several abandoned homes out that way," Sam added. "April. Gnobhead, Short Larry. Mogilev. All within reasonable distance of where the bodies were found." They were back in Sam territory again.

Dean grunted, "Yeah. You missed the shack."

"The what," he asked, surprised that something as simple as a building had slipped by him.

He shrugged. "The kids call it the shack. It's practically on top of where the Sheriff thinks the last boy was killed." Victim number two, Remi Evans, followed closely by his older sister, Alexandria.

"Think we should go check it out then," he nudged, though he wasn't looking forward to a field trip in the woods.

Dean grunted and downed half his bottle of water in one swig. "Sure. Tomorrow. In daylight. Sun sets in less than three hours and shit takes forever to get to with these roads. If this thing kills at night I don't want to meet it until we know what we are dealing with." He'd call the kid with the 4x4 tonight and hopefully they could head out first thing tomorrow morning. Not even Baby's tires could handle the terrain where they were going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working on the third chapter, which is mostly renovated material. No idea when I'll finish it.


End file.
